I believe
by Arienhod
Summary: There were countless graffiti that supported him but to Sherlock there was one that mattered the most. And now he received another one as a gift.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own anything, literally anything, Sherlock related. I do however own a crazy imagination and this is what it came up with. Among other things.**

**More coming soon.**

* * *

A scream echoed throughout the dark flat making the cat, that was till then sleeping on the sofa unaware of the intruder in his kingdom, jump and run under the coffee table utterly startled. His mistress most likely just cost him one of his nine lives.

Molly dropped her bag by her feet and with a shaky hand turned on the light in her small, but cozy, sitting room. She wasn't expecting any company today. In fact she wasn't expecting any company in general since she lacked certain social skills to make a lot of friends who would drop by for a cup of coffee or tea and just chitchat. That was probably why her sitting room looked like a mess with medical journals sitting on every viable surface including the floor, several pieces of clothing simply draped over the back of the sofa, an empty cup on the coffee table and one on the sideboard, flowers that she bought thinking they would cheer her up, now completely dry, in the vase on the windowsill.

But the biggest mess was a man that was sitting on a chair, his head leaned back and his eyes closed.

"God, Sherlock, what happened to you?" Molly whispered softly as she approached the silent man that didn't in any way showed he noticed her arrival, "Sherlock?"

"Hello Molly. It appears I am in need of your assistance once more." He said calmly like he was commenting on the weather.

"I can see that." The shocked pathologist said before leaving the room and going to the bathroom where she, under the sink, kept her first aid kit. It wasn't as stocked as she would like it to be but it should contain everything she needed tonight.

"You were out tonight." Sherlock said as he finally opened his eyes and looked at the only person, apart from his brother, who knew he was still alive "Celebrating?"

"Do you know what day it is?" she asked and he could hear the anger in her voice. It seemed like she was insulted and Sherlock simply couldn't understand why.

"Of course." He finally answered after few moments of awkward silence.

Molly finally shed her jacket, throwing her absently on the sofa, and sat on the edge of the coffee table opposite of the man that observed her with curiosity. She took a deep breath and finally asked, "Then how can you ask me if I was out celebrating? There is nothing to celebrate on this day. You died on this day Sherlock! One year ago you jumped from the roof of St. Bart's."

"I am well aware of that Molly."

"Then how-" she took another deep breath "Never mind. Will you tell me what happened or should I deduce it?"

Sherlock leaned forward and she observed the damage on his beautiful face. His lip was split, some dried blood on the cupid's bow showed his nose was bleeding at some point, there was a small cut by his brow that was still slowly seeping blood down the left side of his face and his hair was coated with what must have been blood on the same side as the cut.

"It is better if you don't know any details Molly." She sighed on his words and nodded silently. If there was one thing Molly was certain of it was that Sherlock Holmes was very protective of his friends, the few that there were. After all he went as far as faking his death to protect them from a madman and his cruel plan.

She took the gauze and alcohol from the kit and slowly and carefully cleaned the cuts on his face. She had to give him credit; he never even flinched despite the sting he must have felt every time alcohol came in contact with the open wound.

"The cut by your brow isn't as bad as it first looked. It stopped bleeding but I'll still put a patch on it just in case."

She moved to get one out of the kit but Sherlock stopped her "Leave it. I will heal soon."

"Sherlock."

"Leave it Molly." He repeated.

"Alright." She finally agreed before continuing, "Your nose isn't broken, as I'm sure you already know. Your lip is split but there is nothing I can do for that." Apart from kissing it better, but Molly would never say those words out loud, "The blood in your hair-"

"Isn't mine." He offered an explanation and Molly nodded.

"Are your ribs tender? If you got in a fight then-"

"They are fine, thank you Molly." Sherlock interrupted her.

"Then why are you here?" she asked suddenly getting confused "You could have easily take care of it all by yourself."

Silence ruled the flat for several minutes during which Molly packed the unused things back to the first aid kit and returned it in the bathroom. When Sherlock finally spoke his voice was breaking Molly's heart.

"I didn't want to be alone today. It never bothered me before, the solitude. But today it was… difficult. I don't do sentiment, but I'm starting to understand it." He admitted, "So I went to Baker Street, to the empty flat opposite of 221B, but all I could see was that abhorred reporter. No John, no Miss. Hudson. I left after several hours and was on my way to see you when I noticed him. I was looking for him for weeks now and all this time he was right here in London."

"Who is he?" Molly asked fully knowing she wouldn't get the answer.

"But you weren't in your flat." Sherlock continued like she never interrupted him "Where were you Molly? You weren't celebrating, then where were you?"

"I was out with John and few other people. We were-" she interrupted herself in mid sentence and changed the subject "John is doing alright now. The first few months were the most difficult for him, for all of us. Even me because I knew the truth and knew how to make him feel better but couldn't."

"What were you doing Molly?" he asked observing her from head to doe, deducing what he could from the little details only he really noticed.

"We were healing." She offered an explanation.

Sherlock frowned "You have tape on three of your fingers. It wasn't an accident during a post mortem; you are far to skilled with a scalpel. You were cutting something much softer and it had to be precise. Most likely paper or cardboard. There are traces of yellow on your fingers that you tried to wash off but didn't manage to remove completely. Judging by the clank coming from your bag when you dropped it on the floor previously it was from spray paint. You have at least three empty cans in your bag." He looked at her seriously, "What were you doing Molly?"

"Healing." She repeated smiling, "And it was quite exhilarating."

"Oh?"

* * *

Sherlock left the flat several hours later; after several cups of tea, a large meal and a long hot shower. As he was walking away from his safe haven he put his hands in his pockets only to discover something that wasn't there previously. Knowing it could only be Molly that put it there he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at the words scribbled there in horrible doctor handwriting.

It was an address that seemed familiar. Slipping into his mind palace Sherlock tried to find that exact street only to realize why it seemed like he knew it from before. It was because he did.

He started to walk faster in the right direction, not caring for the people mingling in the streets. The chances of someone recognizing him were slim now that his hair was cut short and dyed to the color of honey and contacts colored his eyes brown.

Besides, no one expected to see a dead man walking the streets of London.

* * *

It took almost an hour to get from Molly's flat to the address she gave him but the sight was worth the trip. He was in the building before, in the flat that belongs to that idiot reporter, shortly before the Fall. But once white painted building now served as a canvas for an artwork that could have only be made but few individuals.

And he knew them all.

He recognized Raz's work, and the same yellow paint color he once used to decorate the wall back in Baker Street. He now understood that Molly's cuts came from cutting a stencil and the color on her fingers from holding it in place.

Because right there in front of him on the front of the house was a graffiti that will soon, unknowingly to those who made it, start a movement that will spread like wildfire through London and then the rest of the country before it takes over the world.

A black car stopped few meters away and a man carrying an umbrella stepped out before he came to stand in the shadows next to his brother.

"I am quite pleased with how it turned out." He said looking at the work.

Sherlock looked at him, "You knew?"

"Doctor Watson kindly asked if the CCTV cameras could focus somewhere else tonight. It was no hassle, really." Mycroft Holmes explained before asking, "Ride?"

"No." his younger brother answered before returning his focus on the building.

There, on the white background, stood his profile in black paint with bright yellow words informing the world: I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

He only wished he could see… "Mycroft." He looked at his brother, "Has miss Riley returned home already?"

A small smile appeared on the man that was the government "Yes. I will make sure the recording gets sent to you."

"Please do. Goodbye Mycroft." He finished their conversation and walked away, pleased that his return to London was more productive then he first expected. Kitty Riley wanted a story for the first anniversary of his death, well the material was delivered right on her front steps.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Please take a minute and let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER AND AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't own anything Sherlock related. This story was intended to remain a one-shot but I got a general idea for this chapter while making fries and figured out the details I wanted in it while showering because I smelt like fried oil.**

* * *

DI Lestrade walked in the Scotland Yard building and shivered. It was the beginning of January and extremely cold this early in the morning but he wanted to get a head start on paperwork that was waiting for him on his desk. But first he needed coffee. Even if it's horrible one they made in the break room. If nothing else the horrible taste should wake him up quite efficiently.

He stopped shortly at his office and left his jacket there before proceeding down the hallway to the room where the dreaded coffee maker was.

Several people were in the break room when he walked in and he needed greeting them before moving to get his cup out of the cabinet when his cell phone ringed. Thinking it could be a case, one that would take him away from crap coffee and paperwork, he answered without looking at the caller.

"DI Lestrade."

_"Greg, it's John."_

"Oh, morning John. How are you doing?" he asked while reaching with his free hand for the cup. He was out of luck.

_"I'm getting better. It's a slow process."_ John answered before getting to the reason why he was calling, _"Listen, I was wondering if you are free tomorrow afternoon. It's the 6th tomorrow, you know. Sherlock's Birthday, not that he cared for those, and I was wondering if you would like to go with us on the graveyard and maybe for a pint afterwards."_

"His Birthday-" Lestrate muttered, "I had no idea. Yeah, I'll be happy to go along. What time?"

_"Molly's dropping by at Baker Street at three."_ John answered.

"Three. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow John."

_"Goodbye Greg."_

"Bye John." The inspector answered and took a sip of his freshly poured coffee only to grimace at the taste.

He was just leaving the room when a sentence caught his attention and he paused at the door and wondered if he should say anything. But after few moments of pondering decided not to say anything, it wouldn't be any use anyway. People believed what they wanted to believe and some obviously still believed Sherlock was a fraud despite the fact every single case he worked on was ruled as properly handled after being reviewed.

But there was something Greg could do.

Once he walked in his office and sat down he called John. He needed to speak with the good doctor as soon as possible.

_"Greg, did something happened?"_ was how John answered his phone.

"Not exactly. I'm just wondering if you'll be at the flat today around noon. There is something I need to talk to you about and I don't want to do it over the phone."

_"Yes, I'll be here. Are you sure nothing happened?"_

"I'm sure. But something might, if my suspicion is correct."

_"What?"_ John was obviously confused.

"I'll explain everything later. I'll see you in the few hours." Lestrade said and ended the call without waiting for John's answer. He had paperwork to do and he should start right away so he could get away for a longer lunch break and go to Baker Street.

* * *

John spent several hours trying to figure out what could possibly be that the detective inspector wanted to talk to him about today when they were meeting tomorrow. Obviously it couldn't wait another day.

He just put water on the stove to make tea when the doors opened and the man that was confusing him walked in.

"Mrs. Hudson let me in, in the case you are wondering." Lestrade said, "I didn't break in."

"I wasn't. Tea?"

"Coffee?"

John nodded, "Yes, of course."

Once the two men sat down opposite of each other, each with a cup in his hands, Greg spoke, "You're probably wondering what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I can't say I wasn't intrigued what was so important that it couldn't wait till tomorrow." John admitted.

"The graffiti on Kitty Riley's house." Greg said and John blinked at the older man.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"We're you in on it too?"

John was trying to figure out why something like that interested a detective inspector that was investigating murders, "What in the world made you think I had to do anything with that?"

"I know Molly Hooper did. So it's only logically that you did too."

"Molly… How-" John was left speechless.

"How I figured it out?" Greg asked and John only managed to nod without saying a word, "I didn't get where I am now by being an idiot. Now I may not be Sherlock but even I can connect the dots. You see I was on a way to a crime scene when DI Dimmock sent me a photo of the graffiti so I know how it looks and what colors are on it. And that yellow color looked rather familiar." He said looking at the smiling face on the wall.

"And you think that me or Molly had to do with something with that because?" John asked casually.

"Oh, I know for a fact that Molly was in on it. Because after leaving the crime scene I went to St. Bart's morgue to get the preliminary report from Molly and there I noticed she had little flecks of yellow around her fingernails. A very distinctive shade of yellow that she obviously didn't managed to remove." He looked at John smugly, "So, what was your part in the whole thing?"

"I had few, actually." John finally admitted "But why are 'you' interested in that? It's not your division."

"Because I have a plan and I need help."

* * *

Sherlock was lying on the sofa in an otherwise empty flat, pondering his next move, when the phone on the floor vibrated. He frowned and looked down on the device. The message was obviously from Mycroft, no one but his brother knew the number after all, and he wondered for a moment if he should simply ignore it.

But considering his brother might have found something that could help him he couldn't afford to ignore him.

He lazily reached for the phone and opened the message. It was short and made Sherlock frown at the device. Under a ridiculous and unnecessary happy Birthday wish was an address. At first he wondered if someone from the network was hiding there but Mycroft wouldn't have sent it so casually just after reminding him it's his Birthday.

He sat up suddenly and threw the phone on the sofa before standing up and picking up a jacket and a scarf from the peg by the door. They were both ugly and nothing he would have ever worn before, which it was why he was wearing them now.

Grabbing the phone he left the flat and walked down the street in the direction of the address just as the church bell started to sound. It was midnight.

It took good forty minutes of walk though dark streets until he reached his destination. But he didn't want to be seen so he used the fire escape of the building across the street to climb to the roof and observe the target.

The sight on the street wasn't anything he expected.

The streetlights were flickering but it obviously didn't bother the four people on the sidewalk that were currently working on graffiti on the front of a building. He had seen those all across London and even in other places he visited while hunting down Moriarty's men.

It was the same one he saw on the house where Kitty Riley lives. His own profile in black, but this time with yellow color were written the words "We will always believe in Sherlock Holmes".

* * *

Down on the sidewalk, unaware of the dead man observing them, Greg, Molly, John and Raz were snickering. It was exhilarating to do something like this for the three that were usually obeying the law.

"Come on, John." Molly whispered to the man on her right and he nodded silently before writing something with a black marker right next to the profile of his dead best friend. Once he was done the four ran across the street to admire their work.

John pulled out his phone to text Mycroft that it was safe to move any CCTV cameras that could potentially record them. Just then a car turned around the corner and the four exchanged a look before running away, laughing like teenagers.

* * *

The next morning was just as cold as the previous one and DI Lestrade right away went to the break room for a cup of crappy coffee to warm him up before he returned to the seemingly never-ending pile of paperwork.

He was just pouring a cup when the door opened and Donovan walked in followed by sulking Anderson who was loudly complaining. So instead of going to the office right away Greg to a seat on one of the chairs and sipped the toxic waste the coffee machine produces.

"But I'll get them!" Anderson was saying smugly "The idiots made a mistake and signed their horrendous graffiti."

Lestrade frowned, no one signed anything. Accept that thing John scribbled at the end. His eyes widened slightly. What in the world did the doctor write last night?

"It shouldn't be difficult to cross reference the known vandals with the initials I found. See." He gave Donovan a peace of paper just as she sat down opposite of the detective inspector.

"What's going on?" he asked casually, like he was merely interested in what Anderson was complaining about.

"Another Sherlock related graffiti appeared during the night." She explained.

"Not appeared!" Anderson corrected he "Sprayed on my building by six vandals!"

"How can you be sure there were six of them?" Lestrade asked completely confused, but hoped it wasn't showing on his face. He knew for a fact there were only four of them. He really needed to know what John wrote last night.

"They left their initials. Probably to brag, or as a proof to their buddies they dared to make one on _my_ building. But it will be their downfall." Anderson took the paper from Donovan's hand and showed it to the inspector.

There were letters A.D., T.O., L.Y., L.T., I.O., W.S. written on it. It didn't mean anything to him but it must have to John when he wrote them on the wall.

He nodded to Anderson, wished him luck in catching those six individuals and left for his office. Only when he was in, behind closed doors, did he laugh.

Maybe now Anderson will think twice before insulting Sherlock, or rather his memory, but Gregory Lestrade wasn't willing to bet on it.

* * *

That afternoon, he walked slowly towards three people that were standing with their heads bowed in front of a black marble headstone. He meant to go to Baker Street and go with them to the graveyard but he was called in on a meeting.

He stepped next to sniffing Molly Hooper and bowed his head in respect.

They were silent for several minutes, each one of them remembering their friend, before Greg turned towards John who was standing next to Mrs. Hudson who held to both him and Molly.

"Anderson is angry. He is pretty much vowing he would catch the six vandals that made the graffiti."

"Six?" John asked.

"Those letters you wrote at the end, he is certain they are initials." Greg explained.

John laughed, "They aren't. It's an acronym."

"For what?" the inspector was once more confused.

A grin appeared on the doctor's face, "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street."

Molly looked at John confused and Greg chuckled, "Sherlock sure knew how to insult a guy. But it appears you missed a letter, you skipped the second 'the' when you wrote the anagram on the wall."

John merely shrugged "I'll get it right next time."

"Is that where you were last night?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "I was awake quite long and heard you arriving sometimes after midnight."

"It was a Birthday gift for Sherlock." Molly muttered to the older woman who smiled at the pathologist and patted her hand.

"I'm sure he would have liked it. But please let me know next time when you go and do that so I can prepare snacks and tea for you to take with you."

They all laughed at Martha Hudson's words. She wasn't scowling them; she wanted to make sure they weren't hungry or thirsty while breaking the law.

They stayed for a while longer before the cold became too much to handle. As they turned to leave Molly looked down on her fingers and noticed the yellow flecks, "We should stop at a hardware store and get a solvent to remove the paint from our fingers."

Instantly the two men looked down on their own hands and noticed they too hand paint close to fingernails that refused to go away with simply soap and warm water.

Greg snorted, "Luckily Anderson didn't notice those."

Molly sighed, "Sherlock would have."

* * *

They were once more unaware of the dead man that was observing them from the shadows.

Sherlock knew this was a place where he would find them and after last night he wanted to make sure they were all all right.

He watched them as they were walking away from the headstone, could hear them making plans about going for a pint in his honor as they walked pass his hiding spot. And he smiled.

This was why he did what he did, why he faked his death.

For those three people that were important, and one that mattered.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own anything but my own imagination. **

**This chapter gave mo more trouble when it was finished then while I was writing it. I just completed the spell check and updated the chapter and when I tried to save it I was informed it was lost.**

**Luckily I still had a copy in the spell check window, otherwise I would have to write it all over again.**

* * *

Molly Hooper was sad.

Few more hours and Valentine's Day will be officially over and once more she spent it in the company of the deceased. And the most depressing thing about the day is getting home and having no one but her cat Toby waiting for her.

Few of her single colleges were meeting for a pint in the nearby pub after work but even though they made plans about it while she was in the cafeteria with them no one bothered to invite her. It wasn't much of a surprise though; people she was the closest with were the first to turn their backs on her after the Fall.

After she refused, like everyone else, to believe the lies Kitty Riley started to spread and other reporters accepted as the truth without ever bothering to check her sources. Or rather her one laying, psycho, serial killer source.

She sighed and pulled her jacket closer as she exited the building. The cold wind certainly matched her mood.

She started to walk slowly in the direction of her flat when shadows moving at the side of the building caught her attention. She would have panicked and called Greg if not for the now familiar sound of spray paint.

Not wanting to startle the group she moved slowly. The teenagers haven't even noticed her till one of them didn't look in her direction by chance and squeal in fright. The others instantly looked at her as well and were ready to bolt when she spoke.

"You wrote it wrong." She pointed with her head in the direction of the graffiti while holding the gaze of a boy that was holding the spray.

"What?" he muttered not understanding what was going on. The kids were obviously surprised the adult wasn't jelling at them for destroying private property and vandalism and telling them she will call the coppers.

"It's 'Moriarty'. You wrote 'Moriaty'." She pointed out moving her eyes from the kid to the 'Moriaty was real' graffiti.

"Shit." He muttered, "I'm so bloody nervous I wasn't paying attention to that."

"Are you sure about that, lady?" the only girl in the group asked.

Answering she was certain since she dated the guy probably wouldn't be the right thing so she merely nodded before saying, "I am. I followed the case from the start. It's spelled with two r's."

Before anyone managed to say something else the boy with the can of paint was slapped at the back of his head by the girl, "Idiot. I told you to ask Daniel how it's spelled."

"Shhhh…" the others instantly went to hush.

"Debby, you can't use names in front of a stranger." One of them went to remind her.

"Mate, you just used mine." She pointed out before turning to the amused Molly, "Lady, we don't want trouble. We just want to be heard."

"I won't get you in trouble. As far as I'm concerned I went directly home and never witnessed any of this. But if ever you want to do something like this make sure there isn't a camera recording everything." Molly said calmly and the kids all looked at each other and then looked around till they noticed the CCTV camera on the top of St. Bart's pointed right at them.

"Oh God, we are all going to get arrested for this, aren't we?" one of the boys muttered and the others nodded in agreement.

They were so focused on the camera, not even bothering to hide their faces, which just proven to Molly they weren't delinquents so she waived her hand at the camera hoping the right person was watching. Luck was obviously on her side cause just moments later the camera turned to record something else, "Make sure you wash your hand with a solvent, Nail polish remover might work too."

The kids looked at her as she was walking away before the boy with the can looked down at his hands and groaned. His right hand had specks of red all over it.

Once she was behind the corner the girl turned to her friends "You do know who that was, right? Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes' favorite pathologist. Having her correcting us instead of reporting what she saw is like when McGonagall told Peeves when he tried to loosen the chandelier that it unscrews in the other way."

"You sure that was her?" the boy with the spray paint asked before he moved to correct his unfortunate mistake.

"Of course. Her picture was in the newspaper, for that anniversary article."

One of the boys snorted, "That nonsense was written by Kitty Riley. For all we know her name and occupation could be the only true things written. She may not have even known Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

The history seemed to repeat itself because the moment Molly Hooper walked in her flat she screamed, startled by the shadow sitting on a chair in her sitting room.

"I apologize Molly, it seems I tend to frighten you every time I appear." Sherlock said calmly.

"That's alright Sherlock, you can frighten me every evening." She said back smiling.

A part of her, a small part that never stopped hoping, waited for him to say he came today out of all days because it was Valentine's Day and he couldn't stay away and just had to come and see her. But she knew those words will never come out of his mouth. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do sentiment.

But the words that came out of his mouth were the ones she hoped never to hear, the words that cut her heart deeply, "I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving the country; I found what I was looking for somewhere else and need to pursue it. There is nothing of utmost importance left for me here."

She knew what he meant, she understood that there are some in Moriarty's network that are in other countries in Europe, possibly even on other continents. But she couldn't stop her brain from understanding his words in a whole different way.

He probably didn't even know just how much he managed to upset her by formulating it like that. And she felt selfish because she wanted him safe and somewhere close more then she wanted the dangerous criminal empire destroyed.

Molly wondered what kind of person that made her.

"Oh, do be careful Sherlock." She finally managed to say in a cheerful voice that sounded fake even to her. Of course the world's only consulting detective will look right through it.

But Sherlock chose to ignore it because he honestly didn't know what to say. Comforting someone was never one of his strengths. Instead he decided to simply be honest with her, "Mycroft was against me coming here tonight, he believes it's far too dangerous despite no one having eyes on your flat. I checked."

"I'm glad you came." Molly interrupted him smiling softly.

"Well yes, I knew it would upset you if I left without saying goodbye. I don't understand why but I knew it would."

A smile vanished from her face as fast as it appeared "It wouldn't upset me if you didn't came to say goodbye to me. It would upset me if something happened to you and I never had the chance to say it to you. And because of that I appreciate your consideration Sherlock."

He nodded and silence surrounded them for several minutes before Sherlock finally spoke again, "Have you seen John recently?"

"Last week. He came to visit me at work and left with my friends phone number. They have their first date tonight." She said chuckling.

Sherlock had to join in, "John certainly doesn't waste time. I'm… glad for him."

"I am too." Molly agreed, "I think Mary will be good for him. She managed to get him to laugh just minutes after they met."

The silence returned once more and Molly stood up from the sofa and went in the kitchen, "I'm a terrible host. I haven't even offered you tea. Are you hungry? I have some Chinese in the fridge."

"I don't require food Molly, but thank you for offering. You should eat something though, you have been working the entire day today."

"We celebrated your Birthday, you know. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and I. Went to the pub for a pint and spent hours talking about you." She tried to make conversation with the man in her sitting room.

"I am aware of that. I was at the graveyard. And on the roof of a building while you were working on that graffiti the night before." His words surprised her and Molly started to laugh.

"Do you know who lives there?" she asked.

"No. That information never interested me." he pointed out in a matter-of-fact voice.

Molly grinned, "Well it should interest you. Cause that's Anderson's address."

"Oh." Was the only answer she received.

"Speaking of graffiti a new one was being made at the side of Bart's while I was leaving. A bunch of teenagers were writing 'Moriarty was real' right under the boardroom window. Not that they knew which room that was. Or how to correctly spell Moriarty for that matter." She giggled, picked up the cups of tea and walked back in the sitting room.

Only to find it empty.

"Goodbye Sherlock." She muttered and bowed her head, trying to stop the tears from appearing and failing miserably.

Molly slowly lowered the cups and the table and walked to the soft chair where Sherlock was sitting just moments ago. She sniffed and sat down; the material was still warm and smelled like him.

She looked at the side table and noticed an album that was supposed to be on the shelf now residing there. A smile replaced the tears because only one person could have moved it. And she doubted me simply moved it without looking in.

Without seeing the photos she faithfully collected since the first graffiti she helped create. Some were made by a cell phone and later printed out, some were from the newspaper since they couldn't just ignore the ever increasing number of supporters Sherlock has, and some she found online on one of many pages that supported Sherlock and stilled called him a hero that he was

She was glad he found it. There was no doubt he had seen them across London but collected at one place it seemed there were much more of them. And where ever he was going he needed to know he had support.

Others believed in him too.


End file.
